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Old Buck Poem
Cheese curds make my day.
My wife has a daily habit
Of caring for all my needs.
She keeps her eyes wide open
To see what she can see.
This week was no exception
As she neared the dairy case.
Greeted by one of my favorites
Now staring her in the face.
You see. . . I love cheese curds.
I even love their squeaky sound.
When she finds real fresh ones
I can eat them by the pound.
Several months ago,
A nearby dairy closed its door.
Never to make great curds again
No. . . never “curds” no more.
Shullsburg, Wi. was the next place
We’d make the day long drive to.
When we’d go so far fetch,
We’d always buy more than a few.
But it goes against my “system”
When those curds are in the home.
I’m always “digging” in the frig
I can’t leave those curds alone.
But as sometimes life will go
Our local grocer now has in stock
So we can buy fresh curds
Without driving a "million blocks”.
She announced as she returned
From the weekly trek she makes.
“The store had some ‘new’ curds”
To mention curds is all it takes.
I quickly fought open the package
To taste and hear that sound.
I scarfed down several chunks
Before in the frig they’re bound.
“Oh my !” is what I shouted.
These curds are really best.
But at my age, I must control
The quantities I now ingest.
For my old system can’t tolerate
All the cheese I’d like to eat.
So I must regulate the flow
Save my curds for just a treat.
My son, however: doesn’t seem care.
He can mow them down full feed.
But I know “our kitchen tender”
Will supply us all we need.
So “Thank you” Homestead Dairy
And all the folks involved in that.
I’ll be up to see your operation
Maybe get to see you “stir the vat”. :o)
A parting note to all Christian readers,
I’ve a thought about life’s end.
With all the banquets talked about,
I trust my curds “someone” will send.
Written by oldbuck to commemorate the discovery of a “local” supply for fresh curds. Curds and crisp bacon are two of my favorite foods.
Copyright © Old Buck | Year Posted 2016
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Old Buck Poem
An Old Man’s Bedtime Prayer
Lord: Now I lay me down to rest.
To get away from this days test.
To rest my head on pillows fluff.
To clear my head of all the stuff.
That comes your way as you get old.
It’s part of life that’s seldom told.
I hope to get some 10 hrs. sleep.
I’ll probly end up counting sheep.
As I look back across my days.
I know I’ve sinned in many ways.
I’m real sorry. I’ve told you that.
To say again just sounds “old hat”.
But now I plead for this short break.
To get some rest for bodies sake.
If you “Oh LORD” my wish would grant.
And do for me something I can’t.
For I’ve no strength, my life to take.
Just let me die before I wake.
For my old joints have turned to rust.
I’d just as soon they’re back to dust.
Lord: If I’d wake and look about.
I’d “Hoot & Holler” and give a shout.
If I would find that was my fate.
To there be standing, inside “The Gate”
To know at last I’d passed the test.
I don’t need seats among the best.
It’s enough to not be missed.
My name was on His special list.
But you know best, I’m sure of that.
So if I wake, I’ll just hang pat.
I’ll dream of red, rare, steaks so fat
To ponder where the “Good Times” at.
I’ll shuffle through another day.
And burn more bills we strain pay.
To keep us warm in this cold pit.
And by the window now to sit.
As I think back to ‘yester’ years.
With all the joy, few sprinkled tears.
I never dreamed, these “Golden Years”
Would be so filled with pain and fears.
I never thought I’d leave alone.
My wife & I would share our home.
But when I’m gone, alone she’ll bow.
She’ll need get by . . .I don’t know how.
With this I’ll close my nightly plea.
I’d be forever in debt to thee.
If you would oft stop by this way.
To comfort wife here every day.
Written to honor all the elderly that
Struggle with their health, their obligations,
their present & their future.
Copyright © Old Buck | Year Posted 2015
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Old Buck Poem
A Fond Farewell to the Soup
You've all been "Souper".
As I set down at the keyboard
My eyes are filled with tears
For I’ll be saying “ Good-bye”
To folks I’ve “known” for years.
I recently self-published my 4th book
Silly rhymes now fill some 400 pages.
Printed up “officially” in the hope
They’ll last down through the ages. :o)
No one will buy many, if past is judge
But that wasn’t the original point.
If all else fails and they fall apart
I can use the pages to wrap a “joint”. :o)
My 12 yr. elder-life phase of rhyming
Has “respectfully” come to an end.
This last rhyme will finish it out
I’ll now send it to you, my friend.
I joined your group some years ago
But oft felt out of place, not good enough.
When you’re doing something just for fun
Not feeling “up to it” gets kind of rough.
Someone once said: “I’m not so sure
I’d want to be a part of any group
That would accept me into membership.
In desperation, to that level I stoop. :o)
But I’ve written many sheets since then
Least twice felt a need to be preserved
A piece that went together so nicely
I’ve felt “keeping” is what it deserved.
But I’ve gotten off my track again
To say: Adieu to this fine troop.
It’s grown to be for me a family
This wonderful “poets” group.
Thanks a lot for the many times
You’ve read my silly stuff
Shared many supportive comments
Not always, just thoughtless fluff.
I know I’ll miss you but see no need
To be a part, for I can still read.
The wonderful gifts each often shares
On this huge internet poetry feed.
So in the weeks and months ahead
I’ll be back. You won’t know I’ve read
But know I’m enjoying each one
Just don’t let it go to your head.
Respectfully entered by oldbuck
Copyright © Old Buck | Year Posted 2019
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Old Buck Poem
Winter Weary
A rhyme that sends a winters “chill’.
With snow, not knowing where to start.
But as he’s had some time to “chill”.
A fellow with a changing heart.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I’ve never been one, for heading down south.
As soon as the leaves, Get as dry as a drought.
They hang there all golden, all orange and red.
I think of all the song birds, they must be “winter” fed.
To pack all my stuff, in the back of the car.
Head then for the border, always seemed. . . going too far.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
For me, I suck it up, buy warm socks & shoes.
Turn on the T.V. set, grab snacks and Mt. Dew’s.
Ball games, there are many, furnace has been checked.
There are plenty of groceries, pantries piled. . .double decked.
Why this great rush to join the ‘grey haired’ masses.
That will take their big R.V.’s to the Florida grasses.
To the dryer called Arizona. To the spaces called Texas.
You wimps are spoiled. What you need are more taxes. :o)
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Those were yesterday’s thoughts; I’ve had them for years.
I think all my adult life, since dry behind my ears.
But since “Global Warming” has hit the Mid West.
Maybe heading down south, might really be best.
You see, for a month, it’s snowed and now blowin’.
The temps are so low, they’re barely now showin’.
The numbers are all negative, wind makes them worse.
I have words for all this, but not fit for a verse.
I’ve just come back inside from attacking tall drifts.
So if I seem a bit upset, I’ll admit that I’m miffed.
I cleared my double drive to get our cars in and out,
Then the plow comes along, that sight makes me pout.
All the snow from up the street is now piled in the hole.
At the end of my driveway, makes me feel like a mole.
Always digging out, just trying to keep ahead.
All this talk of “Five Seasons”, I’ve for years been mislead.
The extra season was to enjoy, least that’s what I’d read.
I find it’s merely time, for more winter time instead.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Seems I’ve gone on long enough, I’m starting to thaw.
My hands are warming up, yes; they’re still rough and raw.
But my jeans are near dry, there’s some feeling in my feet.
I suppose it’s not too late, to go back to the street.
To make one last pass, to clear those big drifts.
I’m glad we’ve had this chat; my mind’s “clearly” made a shift.
Yes, it’s now 8 below, the winds out of the North.
The drifts in my yard now move back and forth.
But the snow is so pretty, as it hangs from the trees.
No snowflakes are alike, as they shift with the ‘breeze’.
As I look out the back, the feral cats have been down.
That black one, so frisky, so playful. . is really a clown.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I couldn’t be serious, about leaving all this.
So I’ll send you old snow birds, my great winters wish.
Where ever you are, midst the sand and the bugs.
I’ll stay comfy right here, wrapped in blankets and rugs.
I’ll eat lots of the wife’s chili, navy beans with great ham.
Her piping hot biscuits, smothered with P.B. and jam.
There’s beef soup w/ fresh veggies, all diced up just fine.
With fresh homemade noodles. A salad . . cheese but no wine.
I know it sounds strange, this quick turnaround.
But I’d miss the challenge, keeping both feet on the ground.
When you’re fighting the ice as it piles on the walks.
They insist if you don’t clear it, city fathers will squawk.
I’ll not worry about that, in the spring there’s no snow.
When the grass is getting greener, spring flowers then show.
I’ll be here to see it. Iowa. . Then at her best.
I’m lucky to be here . . . . I feel really blessed.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Written by oldbuck, after spending several hours today,
playing in the snow
Copyright © Old Buck | Year Posted 2017
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Old Buck Poem
It’s raining. . . . again.
As I set at the key board not saying a word.
I feel like a muted, silly old . . . nerd.
For in the past, it’s oft been said:
I talk too much. Be quiet instead.
It’s also been mentioned as I’ve voiced my views.
If you’ve too much to say, folks won’t listen to you.
It goes in one ear and then out the other.
Folks don’t filter it. . . . . No time to bother.
So if you run a Q-tip deep down in your head.
Comes out a mysterious yellowish-orange or red.
That just may be a remnant of my being around.
My words passed your head as they fell to the ground.
But don’t be mislead by what you’ve read.
This good advice didn’t lodge in my head. :o)
Written by oldbuck after his cessation 14 mo. ago
Copyright © Old Buck | Year Posted 2019
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Old Buck Poem
Our Lovely Dog Snickers
I was directed today,
To a brand new web site.
It’s all about pets,
And some of their plights.
It got me to thinking,
Of a dog we once had.
She was part of the family;
I felt more like her dad.
When I was at work,
One thing I knew sure.
She was waiting for me,
Her heart was so pure.
When she knew it was time
For me to get home.
She’d wait by the door,
With a toy or a bone.
She’d have a smile on her face,
Her tail would be wagging.
Her affection for me
Never seemed lagging.
If I said, so she’d hear,
“I’m taken’ the truck.”
She always got excited;
She hoped she’s in luck.
If I went for a walk,
She was right by the door.
Looking at me,
With her leash on the floor.
Oh she was a shedder,
A hair-growing machine.
Our house always needed
A thorough vacuuming.
When it came time for bed,
She would stand at her cage.
She knew the routine,
was as smart as a sage.
Some time a while back,
I read of two men.
Who were speaking of Heaven,
But of course hadn’t been.
One fellow wondered,
Would they barbecue there?
Will they melt down smores?
Could the steaks be grilled rare?
Will they use charcoal briquettes?
Or does propane heat the air?
Would there be a choice of soft drinks
Or is it just water there?
Will the biscuits be golden?
Would they there use some leaven.
They were so filled with queries,
About life then in heaven.
Well one of the questions
I would ask of those two.
Will my Snickers be there?
On my slippers to chew?
Will Heaven be heaven?
If that really ain’t so.
Is it finally the place
Where I’ll want to go?
Is she still as anxious,
To run in the clouds?
Or are things there so different,
With men in white shrouds?
I’ll not forget how it ended.
Then came the conclusion.
Perfection in heaven
Is no foggy illusion.
For as my dog had her favorites,
Chew toys and a chair.
She’ll be as happy as ever
When her master gets there.
That seems now so clear,
That’s settled for me.
I have hope and joy,
As the end now will be.
If when at the gate,
I don’t my little dog see.
I’ll know I’m in heaven,
For my Master will be.
Written by oldbuck, after an afternoon of
Thinking about his little Snickers
And their possible “future” together.
Copyright © Old Buck | Year Posted 2020
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Old Buck Poem
I made it through the game.
There’s a game comes about
This time every year.
It’s long been an event
That I’ve grown to fear.
It’s the Super Bowl game
Each year it’s the same.
They waste so much money
Seems really a shame.
I watched the opening coin toss
The Bush’s were there.
Barbara in a golf cart
Pres. George a wheel chair.
He’s in very poor health
Hasn’t much of a grip.
He very nearly dropped it,
Then gave it a flip.
They screamed out the opening
National anthem to start.
I think amateur young folks
Sing more from the heart.
I’m not much of a sport fan
So I head for the cellar.
My wife knows my routine
There’s no reason to tell’er.
I wait for some time
Plan to see some half time show
They run high priced ads.
Millions of dollars they will blow
I didn’t notice the belly fat
On the star of the show.
I only notice the ropes
As she flew down below.
That’s all that I saw
Till 8 minutes remained.
A good solid lead
The Falcons had maintained.
Then all hell broke loose
As Brady imagined them loosing
Vince Lombardy would say:
“That’s not of Brady’s choosing”.
Vince often said of his Packers
They can beat any team
It the game goes long enough.
Brady seems hooked to that dream.
The game went into overtime
An unheard of event.
I can’t believe what I’m seeing
Three weeks before lent.
The Patriots win the toss
My son say’s: “Games over”.
The Falcons are tired
They seem “rolling in clover”.
They run and they pass
One play, then another
Brady had been playing
This game for his mother.
There was this one pass
I’m glad that I saw it.
The ball fumbled around
And then the guy caught it.
Mere inches from the ground
The camera was in close.
That player is still laughing
That’s a great one to boast.
Then just a few moments later
All I saw of the last play
Was this demon came rushing
How his body did sway.
The ball crosses the line
By an inch maybe two
If I were a drinker
I’d “throw-down” a few.
Brady say’s as he’s leaving
Donned a “Winners” T shirt
Someone took my jersey
Half a million, that hurts.
But I’ll settle for my ring
And cheers of the fans.
Winning now my 5th time
Was beyond my life’s plans.
So the game is now over,
The wings are all eaten.
The tacos and nachos
Like the Falcons, are beaten.
Written by oldbuck, Feb 8th as he
waited in the cellar for his wife to
finish a Hawkeye b-b game on BTN
Copyright © Old Buck | Year Posted 2017
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Old Buck Poem
My Mentor is My Friend
There was a time not long ago
Where I felt I had no friend
I thought if I stopped moving
In the trash can I might end
I felt so easily over looked
Disrespected, even mocked.
But then he came along
I felt my life had been unlocked.
He wasn’t like all the others
With some agenda on their mind
Full of probing questions
To see what they could find
He came with “can I help you?”
Are there places that you struggle?
Now don’t hastily misinterpret
My mentor don’t sit and snuggle
In fact it’s just the opposite
He’s like Santa with his pack.
He arrives so well prepared
It’s almost an outright attack
I’m doing better with my lessons
Even I can see the progress
Tests are easier with few surprises
But maybe here I now digress
Well not entirely I must admit
My mentor is for school work
To walk me through my paces
So I don’t grow up a silly dork.
My mentor has become for me
A lighthouse, a beacon of sorts.
To keep me on the narrow path
Maybe even get me into sports
If I seem to be getting ahead of myself
It’s because of why I feel this way
I look forward to his helpful visits
That move me forward day by day.
How does a mentor become a friend?
Because he shows he really cares
If he see’s I’m troubled and grumpy
He moves on, he’ll leave it there
But if I bring up the subject
He makes time to listen carefully
He offers help if he feels he can
Never oversteps “their” policy
He wants me to learn to handle things
To follow rules thru “chain of command”
Go to adults and leaders politely
Not pouting or with loud demands
He’ll go along if I ask him too
Or stay behind with a hushed “go get’em”
He tries to prep for what may happen
“They can’t upset you, unless you let’em”
As I now think about my mentor
The key to our friendship is trust
If we have a misunderstanding
We don’t let it fester or rust.
He helps me face it like it’s important
It’s never “a phase I’m passing through”
I’ve grown to understand the fact
Mistakes can happen and often do
Well I’ve gone on here quit a spell
I’ll hand this in ahead of time
So my mentor won’t see it right away
This project to write a meaningful rhyme
About someone that’s in my life
That I might turn too in times of strife
Like the guy my dad has at work
When troubled by a nagging wife. :o)
Sorry mom. . . . .
Written by oldbuck Jan 26, 2018 after reading a great bit of poetry written by a new friend, about a Mentor.
Copyright © Old Buck | Year Posted 2018
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Old Buck Poem
THANK YOU MISS MADDY
Maddy baked some cookies,
She shared a few with us.
When we took a little taste
We got a full flavor rush.
For hidden in those cookies
Buried away down deep
We found some flavor chips
A great big giant heap.
There were many different kinds
A virtual rainbow of rich flavors.
Each one seemed a favorite
My sweet tooth often savors.
But have I mentioned the size
Of these tasty, giant hub caps.
You can’t eat a whole one
Or they’ll begin to play taps.
We found it best to break it up
Sharing each one with a friend
Or you might simple burst
Before you reach its end.
So here’s a “Hats off”
To our new family cook.
If she keeps this up,
I’ll need my belt to unhook.
Thank you Miss Maddy
For sharing them with us.
As you practice techniques.
You’ll make extra, we trust. :o)
Grumpy & grandmaKarren
Written by oldbuck, Nov9,2015
After one of his granddaughters
Shared her first batch of cookies.
Copyright © Old Buck | Year Posted 2015
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Old Buck Poem
I Don’t Have Answers Either
I’m sitting here today
With my government on my mind
And all the folks who work there
Some out front and some behind.
“Political office” is a strange concept
Not everyone will rightly fit in.
Unfortunately the best of folks
Aren’t always the ones who win.
But best or less, is not the point
They have all taken an oath to serve
Each one has their own agenda
From that they seldom swerve
But when I pray for them
It’s not their bias I think of
I just want that “Quiet Spirit”
To give them a simple shove.
There isn’t a one that needs no help
All give reasons for what they like
But all too often the public’s mood
Takes a terribly frightful spike.
There seem to be no reasoning
No facts that change their views
As they stand in growing numbers
Their hateful rhetoric loudly spews.
So how do I summarize my thoughts?
On the jobs these folks take on.
I trust the good ones band together
To form a thriving, growing bond
Pick issues of real substance
Most silly things don’t matter
Just stick to issues that mend
Our people oft seem so scattered.
The most outstanding issue
In my growing frustration list
Is all the “waste” in government
It makes me really. . . “upset.”
It isn’t the growing taxes
Now spent for public good.
It’s all the errors and theft
By so many scamming “hoods”.
People can lie and it don’t matter
People can cheat at will
But what I find on April 15th
Is I’m left to clean up the bill.
So if you work in government
I don't care about bike trails
Bridges that go to nowhere
Public projects that often fail.
I want my cops protected
Firefighters deserve it too.
Education needs more money
Our infrastructure needs it too.
So improve our well fare system
Give kids a generous helping hand
But after many years of hand outs
They don’t seem able to build a plan.
Spend more of ‘those’ tax dollars
To build skills and more good jobs
Provide training and encouragement
But quit giving them “steak kabobs”.
Step out of your spots in Washington
Come back home, face we common folk.
In small groups and not town halls
So you can hear if a “quiet one” spoke.
I’ll close now with a prayer
With an apology to boot.
I pray for your health and happiness
Know in the future for you I’ll root.
If I see that you are trying
Making progress, slow but sure
When I sense by public comments
Your efforts for us are pure.
Written by oldbuck Feb 25, 2017
as he prepares to have his taxes done
next Tues.
Copyright © Old Buck | Year Posted 2017
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